After spending all night and most of the day at Jake’s bedside, she'd finally forced herself to leave—only to find her car buried beneath hours of snowfall in the far end of the hospital lot. Digging it out with frozen hands felt like penance, though she couldn’t say for what.
Now, the engine idles. The hospital’s glass doors slide open and closed in a steady rhythm, like breath. Inhale. Exhale.
Swallowing hard, she shifts into park and steps out into the cold, moving quickly towards the sliding doors.
Inside, the hospital hums with fluorescent light and soft, murmured voices.
Her heart pounds as she scans the atrium, eyes roaming for familiar broad shoulders and golden hair. And there he is. Looking every bit asformidable as a man with broken ribs could look, his expression unreadable as he looks around, brows knit in confusion.
Natalie’s stomach twists as she watches Jake scan the area. He is dressed in a hoodie and sweats, his posture stiff with discomfort. His trainer, Greg, should be here waiting, ready to take him back to the team bus.
But Greg isn’t here. She’d sent him away. Because she convinced Greg to take the bus back with the team this morning. Because she wants to be the one picking Jake up.
She takes a deep breath and approaches him. “Looking for someone?” she asks lightly, though her stomach twists in knots.
Jake turns at the sound of her voice, his dark blue eyes locking onto hers. “Yeah, I’m waiting for my ride,” he says, then pauses, his gaze assessing. “How come you’re still here?”
She swallows. “I’m your ride.”
Jake’s expression shifts into surprise, then something unreadable. “Greg was supposed to pick me up.”
“Greg sucks,” she declares. “I sent him back on the bus. Told him I’d take you to Hartford. He didn’t argue.”
Greg does suck. He had posted up in the waiting room taking calls on speakerphone, oblivious to the ‘No Cell Phones’ sign directly above him. He complained relentlessly about the cafeteria food with exaggerated sighs and muttered grievances. When he wasn’t yapping on the phone in bro-speak, he was playing Candy Crush at full volume. But the worst part? He badgered the nurses at the front desk, demanding they release Jake sooner so they wouldn’t miss the team bus to the Whalers’ next away game tonight. His impatience grated on Natalie, and his complete disregard for Jake’s comfort and safety made her unspeakably angry.
For a moment, Jake looks at her, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then, with a rueful shake of his head, he laughs. “You’re right. Greg does suck.”
“I thought you’d be more comfortable at home, rather than with the team on the road for the next few days.”
Natalie’s nervousness returns. Has she overstepped? Is Jake put offbecause he is going to spend the next six hours in a car with her? “I’ll spend the night at Jesse’s and drive home in the morning.”
Jake doesn’t reply, and she can tell he is processing. As he follows her out into the snowy afternoon, she isn’t sure if he is grateful or annoyed—or a mix of both. He approaches the passenger side and opens the door gingerly, lowering himself carefully into the seat. He is clearly in pain, doing his best to mask it.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says as he buckles his seatbelt, his voice soft.
“I know,” she admits. “But I wanted to. And the bus is gone, so you’re truly stuck with me, MacDonald.”
She isn’t sure if she imagines the way his gaze lingers on her, like he is trying to read between the lines of what she said. But then he nods, settling back into the seat as she pulls away from the curb.
The drive starts in silence, the tension of unsaid words thick between them. Natalie steals glances at him every so often, noting the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders remain stiff. She wants to ask if he is okay, if he needs anything, but she doesn’t want to hover. So instead, she focuses on driving, on the snow that is falling in large, heavy flakes, on the road growing steadily more hidden beneath a thick layer of white.
By the time they reach the highway, the storm has turned fierce. Wind gusts against the car, making the tires slip slightly before regaining traction. Visibility is shrinking fast.
“Damn,” Jake mutters, sitting up a little straighter. “This is bad.”
Natalie nods, gripping the wheel tighter. She curses under her breath as she jerks the wheel slightly to correct their course. The snowfall is relentless. Thick flakes hit the windshield faster than the wipers can clear them.
“Talk to me,” Natalie says, voice tight. “Distract me. Tell me about your favorite book.”
“Alright.” He considers for a moment. “I don’t know if I have a favorite book, to be honest. I’ve read a handful of books that I really loved. I plowed through them and then was gutted when I finished. Then they stayed with me for a long time, and no other books hit quite right after.”
“That’s called a book hangover. It’s a real thing.” Natalie’s gaze stays on the road, but her focus is all on Jake, hanging onto each word.
“Jesus, is it? Well, I’ve had a few of those. I can also tell you about my most useful book. The one you picked up from my shelf the night we met.Performing Under Pressure.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s a sports psychology book. I’ve had it forever, since before I was on teams that had sports psychologists on staff. I read it at least once a year. Basically, it’s about how stress and pressure are different: Pressure is external—from the coach, the media, your team, your family. But stress is your own internal response—how you handle that pressure. You have little control over pressure, but you can learn ways to control your reaction, your stress.”
